


Like a River Runs

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gunplay, M/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-13 01:59:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7957969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>General Porthos du Vallon celebrates his birthday at the palace - but he finds it isn't quite the same as it once was. (post-series)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a River Runs

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to tumblr for the prompt, "General duVallon's first birthday party while back from the front (not his first birthday since becoming General, I mean). It's a large celebration, modest by court standards but to him it feels almost like too much. He leaves his Musketeers Captain to entertain people and fucks off with the Minister to do some much needed melon-style celebrating."

He’s spent the last three birthdays on the front, he realizes as a loud chorus of cheers rises up from the back of the room, servants bringing in a new cask of drinks. It’s a large party at the palace, the first kind of party he’s ever really attended at the palace, much less for him. He’s not quite used to this much attention centered on him, but Her Majesty had insisted and he knows better than to deny her a request. It’s a balmy night, cool by summer standards but not unwelcomed. The room is bright lanterns and glittering paper. A modest party, by the palace’s standards, but more opulence than he’s ever seen directed solely towards him. 

He’s mostly kept to himself, despite it all, content with watching everyone. Constance and d’Artagnan are spinning around the dance floor, laughing, not even pretending to follow the beat. The new musketeers, no longer recruits after so many years, are milling around – Porthos does not know them as he might have once, in another time, when he was still a musketeer like them – but it’s a welcome reprieve from all the glitter and gold to see the swish of the blue cape. Her Majesty is speaking with Elodie, across the way – he catches his wife’s eye and she smiles at him before returning her attention back to the queen. And Aramis—

Aramis is folding glinted paper into little shapes for His Majesty, who looks delighted by it. It’s been three years and the boy has grown close to Aramis, as would have been expected. Porthos smiles a little, to see Aramis so happy – having watched him weave around the party, floating between Her Majesty and His Majesty, and the diplomats and musketeers besides – happy as can be. It’s been a long time since he’s seen Aramis smile so much. 

It’s a strange thought, to see him like this and feel distinctly separate from him. He knows he’s part of that happiness, too, but it’s a small, understated thing. They’ve spent more time apart than together the last few years, despite the letters and the meetings. Porthos is not one to let himself fall into longing, knows the danger of it. But there are moments, fears, that he keeps tucked away – that someday Aramis will not be waiting for him here, will not miss his presence as he might have once. That he is no longer part of an everyday happiness. No longer essential. 

It isn’t like him to spend his birthday morose. The truth is, though, that the party is not the type for him – too bright, too opulent, too many people he doesn’t know or who don’t know him. He misses the days, earlier – smaller groups, recklessness, too much drink, sleeping in the streets. Those times feel so long ago now. 

Aramis catches his eye once the king darts off into the crowd, undoubtedly to hide behind his mother, and Porthos watches as he smiles at him from across the way. A question in his eyes. Porthos tips his chin once and lifts his eyebrows towards him. Aramis’ smile widens and he threads his way through the crowd towards him. Porthos turns, studies the drinks table and selects a new glass for himself and one for Aramis. He holds it out to him when Aramis is close enough, eyes bright, smile wide. Something pangs low in Porthos’ heart. 

Aramis takes the glass from him, taps it gently to Porthos’, and takes a drink. Porthos drinks, too. They stand in relative silence, surveying the room. 

“You’re supposed to be happy on your birthday,” Aramis notes.

“I’m not happy?” Porthos asks, somewhat rhetorical. 

Aramis looks up at him, eyes glinting in the lantern-light. “You think I don’t know when you’re not really smiling?” 

Porthos drinks. It’s true – he isn’t used to feeling this moody in general. The years have been hard on him. It is easier now, to know that there are people waiting for him when he comes home, that there is someone he can take care of and love and long for, that what he is doing is for good reason, that there is a reason for his existence. But it is still war. And it is war alone, away from the friends he’s known for too long. He knows he has changed since the first time he set foot on the front, knows that sometimes when he looks in the mirror, he cannot recognize himself for who he once was. That sometimes, the war stretches on too long and too unending and it is painful to be away from the people who love him, to fear that he might not come home – that he might come home and find no one left waiting for him. 

“I’m drunk,” Porthos mutters into his glass, because it is easier than speaking the truth – truths he knows are irrational, ill-founded, spun by only on his hopes and his fears. He swirls the champagne in his glass, watches the bubbles rise to the surface. 

Aramis reaches out, touches his wrist gently – an innocent touch, but lingering. “No,” he says, quiet, “I don’t think that’s it.” 

Porthos’ mouth twists up into a smile, definitely sardonic. Aramis knows him too well. Even after all this time, even after all the years stretching between them. He downs the rest of his champagne, sets down the glass, and lifts his eyebrows at Aramis. 

“What is it, then?” he asks, curious more for Aramis’ assessment than anything else. 

Aramis traces his fingertips along the tendons of his wrist, thoroughly unsubtle standing in the court like this. Porthos doesn’t pull his hand away and knows he should. Aramis looks up at him. 

“You’re overwhelmed,” Aramis decides at last. “And feel out of place at your own party.” 

Porthos offers a small, weak smile – and does not deny it. He turns his head, looking out through the open doors to the veranda, the gardens beyond, the glow of stars further still. 

“… I was born in April, you know,” Porthos says after a moment. He turns back to look at Aramis and shrugs at Aramis’ surprised expression. “Treville told me a few years back. He didn’t remember the exact date, but said he’d find out if I wanted him to.” 

“And?” Aramis prompts, quiet.

“And I didn’t want him to,” Porthos says. He snorts. “An April birthday. I was way off as a child. But I couldn’t imagine celebrating in April… could you?” 

The cool summer night suddenly feels too warm. He hates how maudlin he’s being – wants to feel happier about this, feel more in place, not feel so distant, so dismantled. He feels too warm in his coat. 

Aramis is studying his face, clearly concerned now. “Porthos…”

“Never mind,” Porthos dismisses, and tries to smile. “I don’t know why I feel this way.” 

Aramis looks out over the party – eyes lingering and softening on the queen and her son, over d’Artagnan and Constance. He studies the guests, the drinks, the decorations, the servants weaving between guests with their trays of food and delicacies. A simple affair, by court standards. Too much by theirs. 

“You know what I think?” Aramis asks, his eyes landing on a center table full of food. He turns to look at Porthos and nods his head. “Follow me.”

Porthos does, unsure what Aramis means to show him. Most things on the table are too sweet for him, the sweetness souring on his tongue whenever he thinks about where the food might have come from. There are a few puff pastries full of savory meats, though, and he doesn’t mind those. 

What Aramis reaches for, when he gets to the table, is the centerpiece – fruits cut into shapes. What he closes his hands around, though, is a full, ripe melon – uncut, serving as a foundation for some strawberries that go toppling down onto some sweet confectioners. Aramis turns towards Porthos, holding the melon. And he looks so young in the lantern-light for a moment, tentative and hopeful – as if he thinks Porthos will say no, that Porthos could have somehow forgotten the significance of this. Porthos blinks once and finds himself smiling – unbidden and longing. Aramis’ smile widens in turn and they must both look like such fools. 

“Captain d’Artagnan,” Aramis calls out as d’Artagnan spins by with Constance. Both pause, d’Artagnan’s eyes narrowing as he spots what Aramis is holding. “Please entertain the guests for the General. He and I have important matters to discuss.” 

He turns to Porthos with a grin and starts walking, not waiting for d’Artagnan’s response. Porthos shrugs towards d’Artagnan and follows Aramis – feeling lighter, younger than he has in a long time, letting his feet carry him – following Aramis, always following Aramis, the lick of his boots against the tiles of the veranda, the swish of his hair in the moonlight, the glint of the lanterns off the silk blues of his robes. 

They nearly trip on their way down the stairs and maybe they have had too much to drink, buzzing through their bodies but not their heads – and Aramis laughs, leaning into Porthos for support and doesn’t move back. They stumble in the dark together, dipping first into a few empty rooms in search of a pistol for Porthos to use until he finds his own. They trip through the night and with each step, Porthos feels lighter, freer, less like the morose, pale thing he was before – feeling, for the first time, like it’s his birthday. In the safety of the dark, Aramis reaches for his hand and doesn’t let go. 

Even if he loses this, someday, even if this eventually ends—

They find their way through the gardens, a spot secluded enough that the gunshots won’t alarm guests but close enough that they can still use the light to guide their way. Aramis grins, balancing the melon in his hand still as he tries to shrug out of his coat, lets it fall to the ground unceremoniously – and it’ll undoubtedly wrinkle – and grinning at Porthos. 

Porthos doesn’t need to shrug out of his own clothes, but he does anyway – unbuttoning his coat so it might join Aramis’, rolling up the sleeves of his blue shirt, untucking it so that it catches some of the night breeze. 

Aramis backs up, laughing when he almost trips – and it’s similar and different at once. His hair, longer. Crows feet. The hint of grey in his hair and beard. Porthos must look different, too – the new scars, the wrinkles starting to thread over his hands, that he needs to squint a little when Aramis gets too far away – his left eye not seeing like it once did after a hard blow to the side of the head a year back. But it’s the same, too – that same light and hopeful smile when Aramis grins at him from across the way, the way he fixes up his mustache before balancing the melon carefully on his head. 

It takes a few tries – it’s been years, after all – and Aramis barks out a surprised laugh when the melon topples off his head and goes flying off the tip of Aramis’ boot when he instinctively kicks at it. Porthos laughs and catches it before it can hit the ground and smash. The second time, Aramis manages to get it to balance, hands hovering over his head to catch it just in case before he slowly lowers it down, arms open, eyes locked onto Porthos. 

“I don’t want to hit you,” Porthos says, uneasy now that he’s faced with it – he was never good at shooting, it’s been years, it’s been—

“You won’t,” Aramis tells him, calm and confident. 

Porthos breathes out, closes his eyes, and lets himself feel this. Even if he loses this someday, even if it someday disappears – he will remember this, he will always have this. 

He lifts the gun up and kisses it, locking eyes with Aramis. Aramis’ smile turns more heated, but still gentle – watching him, unmoving, unflinching. Trusting. 

Porthos aims the gun and fires. 

It becomes, suddenly, like years ago – when they were young, before everything had happened, before things had fallen apart and were put back together again. In the blink of an eye, Porthos feels secured again. In the blink of an eye, it’s like flashing back in time. The melon explodes above Aramis’ head – shards of the fruit flying, the juice sliding down over Aramis’ face. And, achingly familiar, Aramis’ wide grin, eyes bright – and then laughing. Porthos is quiet for a moment, still, and then the laugh rushes out of him before he can second-guess it. It feels natural again, to feel this, to do this – as if no time has passed, his body remembering the movements, remembering the look of it. Aramis, soaked in melon, bits of it in his hair. Porthos, the smell of gunpowder on his hands. 

Aramis laughs, wild and delirious, his eyes sparking, hair in his eyes and melon on his shoulders. He stumbles over towards Porthos, reaching for him. 

“Come here…” Aramis says and Porthos comes to him, folds himself into Aramis’ arms. He smells like melon. Aramis hums out when he’s close enough, studies Porthos’ face. “That’s better,” he says quietly. “You should be happy.” 

And even if he might someday lose this—

—he has to believe he won’t. He has to believe that, no matter what happens, he will always have a place here with Aramis. That Aramis will always reach for him like this, will always smile at him like this – like he does no one else. 

“Remember what else we used to do on your birthday?” Aramis asks, sly now, eyes dark. 

Porthos laughs and then pushes Aramis to the nearest wall lining the garden’s edge. “Oh,” he tells him. “I remember.”

He threads their fingers together and pins Aramis’ hands above his head, and kisses him – slow and sure and desperate. Aramis opens up to him, lets out a soft breath of his name, and kisses him back.


End file.
